By George!
by aliasfluffyone
Summary: Hannibal Heyes' first meeting with Georgette Sinclair got off to a bad start. Mid-outlaw days, c Dec1875
1. In From The Cold

Disclaimer: Alias Smith and Jones does not belong to me. This is fan fiction, not for profit.

Any references to people, places, businesses, etc. are entirely fictitious.

A/N – story presumes the details on the wanted posters are not entirely accurate. Story exists in the same No Amnesty - Smith and Jones story verse as previous stories.

Chapter 1: In From The Cold

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"Mr. Owens' room please," requested the new arrival in a quiet, authoritative tone that carried across the hotel lobby. "I'm meeting my partner here."

The slender man leaned against the registration counter. His sharp eyed gaze surveyed the small room. Georgette Sinclair noticed he missed no one. A polite nod acknowledged Bertha as she staggered from the dining room to the kitchen with a load of supper dishes. A longer, assessing gaze lingered on Mr. Newton. Sprawled on the settee, his bald head tilted back, the drummer snored loudly. A smirk of dismissal and the sharp eyes settled on the fashionable young woman coming down the stairs. With one finger, the young man tilted his pointed black hat back at a jaunty angle. He flashed a dimpled smile.

"Mmmm," breathed George appreciatively. "Prospects are looking up."

The sultry brunette paused on the landing. The tall, dark haired man appeared to be close to her own twenty-five years. She twirled one finger in the long dark ringlets cascading over her shoulder in an attempt to keep his attention, but she didn't count on the desk clerk's barely audible response.

"We don't have anyone named Mr. Owens checked in," informed Mr. Johnson.

The newcomer snapped his head around to face the barrel chested middle-aged man behind the counter. The abrupt movement dislodged his hat. The felted headpiece fell backwards, dangling by stampede strings. The young man ran his hand through a head of dark brown hair.

"Hmmph," muttered George, piqued at being so easily forgotten.

Her lips crinkled up in a dismayed pout, she continued down the stairs. The now hat-less man leaned forward across the registry desk, his smile banished.

"What do you mean?" demanded a concerned voice. "He was supposed to be here already!"

"We don't have…"

"Perhaps Thaddeus Hale?" interrupted the younger man.

George's eyebrows went up at the second name. Hale was a rather common name she told herself, nothing to worry about. At the registration counter, Mr. Johnson looked up from the wide ledger in surprise too. His bushy eyebrows drew close together as his face tightened up in a frown.

"How many names does your partner have?" demanded the clerk in a suspicious tone.

For a moment, George thought she witnessed a slight hesitation. The dark haired man's confident exterior faltered, revealing a glimpse of wariness.

"He…"

Her feet reached the well-worn carpet in the lobby. George blinked in surprise. Just as quickly the man's expressive face changed back to an emotionless mask.

"Just one," answered the voice with a smooth tone. "One name."

Mr. Johnson didn't appear to have noticed the newcomer's hesitation, but the desk clerk's steely gaze demanded more.

"There was some trouble on the trail. We split up to avoid…," George caught the slight hesitation again, before the younger man continued with his explanation, "thieves. I just thought my partner might have checked in under a pseudonym."

"A su – do – what?" asked Mr. Johnson in a confused tone.

"An alias, a fake name to throw our pursuer's off," answered the dark eyed man. Graceful fingers made a gesture to the side of his head. "My partner is roughly my height, curly blond hair, blue eyes…"

"We don't have anyone matching that description registered here," stopped Mr. Johnson in a flat tone. "Not by any name."

"No one?" The slim man's voice ratcheted upwards in disbelief.

"No one," repeated Mr. Johnson firmly. "Now do you want a room? Or not?"

George could almost hear the dark haired man gulp as his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. A tight smile forced itself across the man's face.

"Yes, a room facing the street, with two beds," insisted the registrant with a hint of Kansas twang in his voice. In a determined tone, he added, "My partner will be here soon."

George wondered whether his last sentence was to convince the desk clerk, or himself.

"And where is the telegraph?" questioned the worried man. "I need to see if he's sent a message."

"Next to the bank, but you will have to wait until morning, they're closed now," answered Mr. Johnson. He pushed the heavy book towards the man. "Sign the registry and it's a dollar and six bits for a room."

"That much?" questioned the dark haired man in a sharp tone.

"Payable in advance," insisted Mr. Johnson, his jaw jutting out defiantly.

"Of course," responded the traveler. Nimble fingers reached for his vest pocket. "And I'll want a hot bath."

"Another two bits," countered the clerk. "Or you could go to the bathhouse by the springs in the morning."

George smirked. Cautious Mr. Johnson always demanded payment in advance, even for guests that appeared as prosperous as the new arrival. The younger man's finely tooled leather saddlebag thrown casually over his left shoulder didn't hide the cut of his elegantly tapered jacket. Tailored buff pants disappeared into shiny black boots with a low stacked heel. There was a momentary pause as the appropriate coinage was retrieved and placed on the counter before Mr. Johnson.

"Here you go," responded the man. He picked up the pen with a flourish and scrawled a hurried signature.

The older man nodded grudgingly and reached for the keys hanging behind the counter. The younger man slid the book back towards the desk clerk, retrieved his room key and turned towards the stairs. George found herself face to face with the new guest, staring into the depths of a pair of dark brown eyes. She smiled again, parting her lips to speak, when the desk clerk interrupted.

"I can't read this chicken scratch!" declared Mr. Johnson. "What's your name? Who are you?"

"Willard Rembacker," declared the dark haired man. With a nod to George, he stepped around her. "If you'll excuse me Ma'am."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The next morning, George was on her way to the dining room when she heard Mr. Rembacker stomp inside. Brushing flakes of snow from the sleeves of his dark jacket, he glowered at the morning desk clerk.

"You could have told me the telegraph office wasn't open yet!" grumbled Rembacker.

"You didn't ask," countered the youth. "Telegraph office opens at nine."

The thunderous expression on Mr. Rembacker's face might have cowed someone else, but the oblivious teen merely resumed straightening the desk.

"Mr. Rembacker," called George in a soft voice.

The dark haired man turned to face her. A dazzling, dimpled smile appeared. George sucked in a deep breath.

"Ma'am," acknowledged Rembacker. Sweeping his black hat off his head, he stepped towards her. Speaking with formal courtesy, he continued, "I must apologize, I don't remember being introduced. You have me at the advantage, I don't know your name."

George dropped her eyes discreetly. She extended one hand forward. Strong fingers took her hand in his. She looked up and batted her eyelashes.

"Georgette Sinclair, I heard you checking in last night," stated the woman. Then she continued with a total fabrication. "Forgive me if I am mistaken, but are you the same Mr. Rembacker my late husband introduced me to in Amarillo three years ago?"

A tiny tightening around the creases of his eyes told her Rembacker knew he'd never been introduced to her before. Bringing her hand to his lips for the faintest brush of a kiss along the back of her hand told her he wasn't going to expose her subterfuge, at least not yet. George smiled in relief.

"Dreadful sorry to hear of Sinclair's passing," murmured Rembacker going along with her story.

George smiled and gestured towards the dining room.

"The hotel restaurant serves a decent breakfast. Would you care to join me?" asked George. "And service is so slow that the telegraph office will surely be open by the time we finish."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Two cups of coffee, a plate of scrambled eggs, biscuits and sausage later, George huffed in exasperation. Every question she had posed to Mr. Rembacker had been turned back around to her.

"If I didn't know better," muttered George, "I'd think you were a scammer on the circuit."

The departing figure of Mr. Rembacker hurried outside into the snow. The dark haired man was determined to check the telegraph for the whereabouts of his partner. George reached across the table to his untouched plate. Tucking his sausage inside the biscuit, she hurriedly slipped the food inside her voluminous handbag. The money he'd left on the table was more than enough for both breakfasts and a generous tip, but she didn't touch that. Even a down on her luck con woman has her limits.

"Partner's six years?" whispered George, arching one eyebrow up at his disappearing figure. That tidbit of personal information had been his only slip up. If it had been a slip up. "Really? Do you expect anyone to believe that?"

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The click of heels pacing across the lobby floor stopped. George looked up. From her seat on the sofa, she peered over the top of the outdated Denver newspaper in her hands. Mr. Rembacker stared out the front window. Mr. Johnson snoozed on the cot behind the registration desk. There was no one else in the lobby this late in the evening.

"What do you see?" asked George, hardly expecting an answer.

The flirtatious woman had tried to engage the dark haired man in conversation several times over the past three days. All she really knew about Mr. Rembacker was that he didn't pry into her plans, and made a point of asking her to join him for meals. Meals he paid for, but hardly touched. His silver tongue diverted her questions with ease. And he awaited the arrival of his partner. Anxiously awaited, if the incessant pacing was any indication.

"A rider coming," answered Willard Rembacker.

George rose to stand, pulling her knitted blue shawl snug around her arms. Crinolines swayed as the brunette moved towards the window. Outside, a rider on a large black horse plodded down the main street of Poncha Springs, just barely visible in the swirling snow.

"Is that your partner?" questioned George as she tried once more to pull some information out of the secretive man.

"Finally," answered Mr. Rembacker without taking his gaze off the rider. "He should have been here five days ago!"

The slender man turned away from the window and strode briskly towards the front door. Grabbing his hat and coat from the hall tree near the entrance he disappeared out into the storm, leaving George gaping. That answer had been the longest string of words she'd heard from him since their first breakfast together.

"Hmmph," huffed George. She returned back to the settee. "Hopefully your partner talks more than you do."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"Lean on me," urged a soft baritone voice.

George heard the heavy front door of the hotel thump against the wainscoting in the entryway. Two men loomed in the narrow opening. She recognized the figure of the mysterious Willard Rembacker. Snow flurried outside, sparkling bright white in the light of the kerosene lantern hanging on the porch post. Their voices carried clearly through the nearly empty lobby.

"Boots are muddy," rasped the hoarse voice of the man slumped against the outside door frame.

The man in the water stained sheepskin jacket meticulously began to scrape the sole of his left boot against the black cast iron scraper Mr. Johnson had bolted to the porch floor. George shifted the newspaper to one side in order to see better.

"Look at you! You're soaked," grumbled Rembacker's concerned voice.

Inside the doorway, the dark haired man shook his head in exasperation. He reached his right hand out towards the other man.

"Ahh!" gasped George.

The paper slipped through the fingers of her neatly manicured hands to land on the faded purple velvet sofa cushion.

"You can barely stand," observed the man with a critical gaze. "Cleaning your boots can wait."

"My mother taught me not to track mud in a house," replied a scratchy determined voice.

The man outside switched from standing on his right foot to wobble on his left foot as he began the process of scraping the sole of his right boot.

"You wouldn't be so muddy if…" huffed Rembacker's worried voice.

Whatever Rembacker was going to say was lost in the sound of coughing. The other man doubled over. George couldn't quite see his face, but she was sure, alright mostly sure, almost sure.

"Is it you?" asked George in a hopeful whisper. "Come on Kid look this way."

George caught a glimpse of blond curls peeking out from beneath his hat, before Rembacker stepped closer to pound his partner's back. The coughing finally stopped. The slender dark haired man backed up a step and George saw the bigger man in the bulky sheepskin coat straighten up.

"We gotta get you inside where it's warm," declared Rembacker in a firm tone.

The reticent man's floppy brown hat bobbed up and down as he nodded in agreement. A blast of cold air swept through the door and across the lobby, fluttering the pages of the guest registry. Johnson stood up from behind the front desk. Rubbing his sleepy eyes, he frowned at the proceedings. Rembacker wrapped his right arm around the waist of the quieter man.

"Put your arm over my shoulder," coaxed a warm tone.

Three staggered footsteps brought the men inside. The slender man nudged the door shut as he steadied his companion.

"This here is a respectable hotel," declared Johnson in a querulous tone. "We don't take in drunks."

The dark haired man's gaze shot up. Eyes blazed. George sucked in a deep breath. Mr. Johnson didn't quite shake in his boots, but the gray haired man did take a step back at the fierce look directed towards him.

"Neither one of us is drunk!" snarled the angry man. "My partner has been on the trail for the past three weeks."

The ungainly pair sidestepped their way across the threadbare carpet towards Johnson's desk, stopping midway as another fit of coughing kept the bedraggled man in the sheepskin jacket from speaking. As the pair came closer, George could see the mud caked along the fair haired man's wet blue jeans. Half dragging his partner forward, the dark haired man continued his tirade.

"My partner's horse slipped on ice crossing the stream outside Poncha Springs," declared Rembacker. As if Johnson was personally responsible for this problem, the slender man glowered at him. "He's soaked!"

A big hand grasped the edge of the desk as the man in the sheepskin jacket steadied himself. George narrowed her eyes as a faint memory teased at her mind. She tried to get a better look at the face beneath the dark brown hat. Johnson started to shake his head from left to right.

"Mr. Johnson, surely you're not going to say there's no room at the inn," cajoled George in a coquettish voice. "Not tonight of all nights."

"Huh?"

The older man paused. The dark haired man turned to look directly at George. His wide generous lips curled upwards in appreciation at her support. The other man's floppy brown hat tilted forward. There was a brief glimpse of blue eyes before the head ducked down, shoulders heaving with the force of his coughing. The brunette licked her lips.

"It's Christmas Eve," reminded George. "And Mr. Rembacker has already paid for the room."

Mr. Johnson pursed his thin lips for a moment, then nodded.

"You'd have to give him a refund if you turned them out," nudged George. She tilted her head to one side and smiled sweetly. "And it's not likely you'd rent the room tomorrow."

"Guess it wouldn't be the Christian thing to do," acknowledged the landlord. He frowned at Rembacker and his partner. "But I don't want no trouble."

The dark haired man half carried, half dragged his partner. In a matter of minutes, the two men were halfway up the stairs.

"And send for the doctor!" called the man registered as Willard Rembacker.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Two hours later, the doctor had come and gone. George tapped on the door to the large front guest room. Rembacker opened the door a crack. Dark eyes with a vigilant expression gazed back at her.

"Chicken soup," smiled George.

She raised the small lidded bucket so he could see it. The aromatic soup swung back and forth in her hand. Upon hearing that Mr. Rembacker's partner had finally arrived and was ill, Bertha had been kind enough to reopen the kitchen this late in the evening.

"It's the best thing for a bad cold," urged George.

Rembacker stepped back and opened the door wider. George's eyes widened as she realized he was holstering a pistol, but she stepped inside the room anyway. One brass bed had a black hat tossed casually atop the red and blue checked quilt. A jumbled pile of wet clothing and boots was on the floor next to the other bed. A familiar floppy brown hat was carefully placed atop the nearby bureau. Beneath the green and white quilt a man sized lump appeared.

"Thank you," started Rembacker, "but the doctor said…"

The lump groaned. Rembacker's worried dark brown eyes snapped towards his partner. Seizing the opportunity, George pushed past the slender dark haired man.

"I know you don't believe me, but I really did live in Amarillo a few years back," continued George in a cheerful tone as she stepped closer to the patient. "Six years ago as a matter of fact."

Familiar blond curls were plastered to a sweaty forehead. Blue eyes blinked, blinked again, trying to focus.

"A friend of mine from Kansas and I shared a room at a boarding house," confided George. "Clem had a real sweet boy wrapped around her finger."

"George," rasped the man on the bed.

"Hello Kid," greeted George. "I heard you got into some trouble after I departed Amarillo and that you left Texas to join up with some outlaws."

The blond man shook his head. Kid struggled to sit up. George turned to gaze back at the dark haired man.

"You must be the leader of the Devil's Hole Gang," continued George with a sardonic smile. "The bad influence, Hannibal Heyes."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-


	2. Friends Like These?

Disclaimer: Alias Smith and Jones does not belong to me. This is fan fiction, not for profit. Any references to people, places, businesses, etc. are entirely fictitious.

A/N – story presumes the details on the wanted posters are not entirely accurate. Story exists in the same Smith and Jones story verse as previous stories.

By George! c Dec1875

Chapter 2: Friends Like These?

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"Heyes ain't a bad influence!" objected Kid in a hoarse voice. Blue eyes winced in pain as he moved again. "And Clem never had me wrapped around her finger."

George flashed a saucy smirk at her young friend. The bed linens slipped down from Kid's chin to reveal bare chest muscles. The twenty-one year old swayed back and forth, much like the soup container George dangled by the wire handle from her fingers.

"Don't flatter yourself Kid," responded the brunette. "I never said the real sweet boy was you."

Kid groaned and he clutched one bare arm across his middle. Heyes pushed past George in a hurry to reach his partner. The dark haired man grabbed Kid by the shoulders.

"Sssh," soothed Heyes as he pressed Kid back against the pillows. "Lean back. Remember the Doc said you needed to rest."

The quilt dropped lower to reveal bandages wrapped around Kid's lower ribcage. George's mouth gaped open. Dark eyes blinked in shock as George attempted to regain control of her mouth.

"Bandages?" asked George. "Since when do you need bandages for a bad cold?"

"Doc wrapped his ribs, he thinks they're cracked," snapped Heyes.

"From coughing?" George's voice rose incredulously.

"No, from some bounty hunter lassoing him and dragging him off his horse three days ago. That's why he was late getting here," answered Heyes. "Of course Kid's horse throwing him in the stream on his way into town today didn't help any."

Dark brown eyes glared at George as if Kid's pain were her fault. The blond man struggled against Heyes' grasp, trying to sit up.

"Heyes, we gotta get out of here," rasped Kid.

"Sssh, we're not going anywhere until you're better," murmured Heyes. "Now lie down…"

"George knows who we are!" interrupted Kid. "Her father is a Texas Ranger! She'll turn us in!"

Heyes shoulder muscles tightened at Kid's words, but he hardly spared George a glance as he tried to settle his partner.

"Hmmph, keep talking like that, and I might," sniffed George in an affronted tone.

The slim woman turned away, blinking her eyes at Kid's comment. Setting the soup container on the nearby washbasin, she took a moment to brush one hand across her eyes before she pulled a spoon rolled up in a linen napkin from her pocket. She picked up the soup container again and turned back to face Curry and Heyes. George forced a bright smile across her face.

"Five hundred dollars reward is a lot of money, but it isn't enough incentive to make me turn you in Kid," continued George in a nonchalant voice. "For some silly reason, I like you."

Heyes' brown eyes drilled into her, his face a stony mask.

"Since the Midwest Bank started adding to the bounty last April, the price on our wanted poster has gone up to a thousand dollars," informed Heyes in a steely tone. "Each."

The thought of what two thousand dollars could do for her froze George. It was enough money to get Remy De Moines off her trail. She could start over. George looked at Kid. George's face softened. The sweet boy Clem had introduced her to years ago in Amarillo was a grown man now. Kid Curry might be an outlaw, but he was still her friend. She could never turn him in. The brunette smiled sweetly and turned back to Heyes. George could tell he had noticed her momentary hesitation.

"Heyes, I'd turn you in for a thousand dollars or maybe even ten dollars, but I wouldn't want to upset Kid when he's not feeling well," responded George in a cheerful tone, her smile broadening with each word. "So I guess you're safe for now."

George clanged the spoon against the metal soup tin. The jarring noise echoed across the room.

"Time for dinner Kid," urged George.

Her gaze followed the curly haired blond as he slumped back against the pillows, exhausted, shaking his head.

"I'm not hungry," mumbled Kid as he closed his eyes.

George jerked her eyes upward to meet Heyes' worried brown eyes.

"He must really be sick."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The next morning, George tapped lightly on the door to the big front room registered to Mr. Rembacker and Mr. Owens. Hannibal Heyes opened the door a crack, pistol drawn as it had been the night before.

"Merry Christmas," greeted George with a sunny smile almost as bright as the yellow dress she wore.

"What are you doing here again?" asked Heyes.

George put her hands on her hips, glared at Heyes and leaned closer. Shadows hung under his eyes and his once crisp black shirt was wrinkled.

"Is that anyway to greet me?" demanded George in a low hiss. "Don't you wish a person Merry Christmas?"

Silence reigned as the pair scowled at each other.

"Merry Christmas," responded Heyes grudgingly. The smile that started across George's face was dashed by his next words. "I thought we got rid of you last night."

"Hmmph, not a chance," snorted George. "I'm here to check on Kid, he's my friend too."

The brunette moved her hands to push against the door. It thumped against Heyes boot. The slender man leaned his weight upon the door, keeping her out.

"Aren't you worried about your reputation?" questioned Heyes in a testy tone. "What's a fine lady like you doing hanging out with a couple of outlaws like us?"

"The hotel staff is already under the belief that you are an old family friend of my dear, departed husband," sniffed George.

"Now where did they get that idea?"

George rolled her eyes in exasperation at his snide tone.

"Where do you think? You've been having breakfast in the hotel restaurant with me for the past three days," reminded George.

Heyes snorted and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _"no good deed goes unpunished"_ , but he didn't back away from the door.

"And now that my dear _baby brother_ has arrived," George smiled as she watched the dark brown eyes blink, "I've asked Bertha to bring breakfast up here since he's not feeling well."

Heyes rubbed a hand across his face, brown eyes still blinking, whether in surprise at her words or just plain tiredness, George didn't know. Her chin jutted out and balled up hands resumed their station against her hips.

"Are you gonna leave me standing out here in the hallway on Christmas Day?" demanded George indignantly.

The exhausted man sighed. Taking a step backwards, he released the door. George pushed against the wood and strode inside.

"Now put that thing away," hissed George with a disdainful glance at the pistol. "Who on earth are you planning on shooting anyway?"

Heyes looked at the pistol in his hand, shook his head and holstered the weapon. George glanced around. Heyes' black hat still sat atop the neatly made bed farthest from the windows. In the next bed, Kid sprawled beneath the green and white quilt, one feather pillow over his head, another on the floor below. George was pleased to note the lid of the soup container was now on the wash stand, spoon handle neatly laid across the top.

"Wasn't planning on shooting anyone, just wanted to make sure no one tried to shoot us," muttered Heyes.

"If you didn't want people shooting at you, you're in the wrong line of work," retorted George.

Heyes opened his mouth to respond, but an involuntary yawn overtook him. He rubbed his hands across his face. George's anger evaporated. She remembered the past three days, anxious waiting on his part. And although Heyes had generously paid for her meals he hadn't eaten much himself.

"Did you eat the soup?" asked George in a soft voice. "Or Kid?"

If George had thought his dimpled smile was dazzling before, she was mistaken. A real Heyes smile showed his relief. Brown eyes twinkled. Dimples deepened as the skin around his eyes crinkled upwards.

"Kid woke up coughing a little while after you left," answered Heyes. "I coaxed him into taking some of the broth, told him it would soothe his cough. Before he knew it, he'd eaten the whole thing. Then he went right back to sleep, Kid hasn't coughed since."

"So you stayed up all night, watching him," deduced George.

Broad shoulders shrugged in response to George's comment, as if a sleepless night was nothing. Heyes turned to look at his sleeping partner. Sunlight streamed in through the big front windows lighting up tips of blond curls peeking from beneath the pillow.

"Kid kicks the covers off when he sleeps," Heyes explained.

"I'll take your word for it," smirked George. The slim woman gestured towards his empty bed. "Breakfast won't be here for at least an hour. Why don't you lie down for a bit and I'll watch Kid while you sleep."

The warmth disappeared from Heyes' brown eyes, leaving a guarded expression on his face.

"Why did Kid think you would turn us in last night?" asked Heyes. His voice was soft, but George felt a hint of danger in his tone. "If I laid down and went to sleep, would I wake up to find us surrounded by lawmen? Perhaps even a Texas Ranger?"

"In case you've forgotten," George spluttered in outrage, "we're in Colorado. Texas Rangers wouldn't have any jurisdiction here!"

"Why should I trust you?" demanded Heyes. "Sick as he is, Kid wanted to run when he saw you."

George's shoulders slumped. Kid's reaction last night had hurt, and the comment about her father just reminded George how messed up her life had become. Her old friend didn't trust her and her father… her father… George's chin quivered.

"I don't blame Kid for what he said," gulped George, "but it was Remy set the Sheriff in Beaumont on Kid, not me."

Eyebrows above a pair of dark eyes soared upwards in disbelief.

"And that's supposed to make me trust you?" questioned Heyes in a mocking tone. "Surely a good con woman such as yourself can do better than that."

"Con woman?" echoed George in dismay. She tried a flustered attempt at denial. "What? How? I'm not…"

"Are you the same man my late husband introduced me to?" repeated Heyes with a slight falsetto. Voice dropping to a low growl, he declared, "I know the man who invented that scam."

George's chin wobbled. She had been in Poncha Springs too long. And when she first saw Heyes, in the guise of Willard Rembacker, George had thought he might be scammed for enough money to get her on her way again, away from Remy. The introduction was the start of one of the many scams she had learned since meeting Remy, but Rembacker had never fallen for any of her lures. Rembacker wasn't interested in her late husbands stocks, or mining rights, or helping her sell her engagement ring. The only thing the dark haired man had done was pay for breakfast.

"You're right, I was going to try to run a scam on you, but that was before I found out you were Kid's friend," admitted George with a forlorn expression on her face. "I'm not gonna turn you in to the law!"

"Oh really?" Heyes' eyes rolled in disbelief. "Why would you expect me to believe that?"

"Because I don't want to go to jail either," wailed George. "After everything that's happened, even my own father would arrest me."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Nearly an hour later, George sat in the overstuffed chair by the window. She looked down at the twisted, crumpled white linen handkerchief in her hands. Who would have thought a hardened criminal would carry such a thing? And offer it to a distraught woman? She looked across the room to where the sleeping outlaw leader lay atop the red and blue checked quilt, his black hat covering his face. Heyes snored. In front of her, the mound that was Kid rolled over. Blue eyes blinked open. Kid regarded her with a cold gaze for a moment.

"George," finally acknowledged Kid with a scratchy edge to his voice.

"Kid," encouraged George, "your voice is sounding better."

"What are you doing here?"

George's nose tilted up in the air. She passed him a clean, dry blue shirt.

"Put that on before the housekeeper arrives with breakfast," admonished George. "And is that anyway to greet an old friend? How about Merry Christmas? Or maybe good to see you George?"

"The last time I saw you in Beaumont…" began Kid as he sat up and gingerly slipped one arm into a sleeve.

"It wasn't me that told the Sheriff you were wanted," interrupted George quickly. "That was all Remy."

Kid frowned. George remembered, Kid never trusted Remy. At the time, George had thought it was because Clem didn't like Remy, but now she wondered. When the charming man invited George to go to Wichita, both her friends had urged her not to leave Amarillo even after they had seen the huge sparkling diamond ring on George's finger.

"Is that rich French jeweler around here somewhere? Waiting to make more trouble?" asked Kid. He slid his other arm into the second sleeve and reached for the buttons.

"He wasn't rich, or French, or a jeweler," stated George looking back down at the crumpled handkerchief in her hands.

"Huh?"

"Remy De Moines was an alias, he was born in Paris Texas, not Paris France, and his name is really Jeremy D. Moynihan," explained George. It was somehow easier now to tell the story of Remy's betrayal after having poured the tale out to Heyes earlier. "Do you remember that fancy box with all those jewels he carried around?"

Kid nodded.

"Fakes," explained George. "And introducing me to people as his fiancée in Wichita was just an excuse to set up scams. We robbed people."

"You did what?" Kid's voice rose up in astonishment, setting him to coughing again.

"I'm a jewel thief," wailed George. She dabbed Heyes' handkerchief to her eyes again and sniffled. "When you saw us in Beaumont four years ago, in all the commotion between Remy and the Sheriff, I ran off."

Kid's coughing settled. Warm blue eyes now looked at George in concern.

"Remy's been after me ever since," declared George. "If he shows up in Poncha Springs, we're both in trouble."

A knock on the hotel room door stopped any additional questions Kid might have. With a swift movement, Kid reached for the pistol in the holster dangling from the bedpost.

"Put that away," hissed George. "It's only Bertha bringing breakfast."

"Can you see through walls?" snarked Kid. "You're not the only one with someone chasing after you."

The slim brunette glared at Kid until he slipped the pistol beneath the covers. His clenched jaw let George know he wasn't going to put the weapon away. George stood up and walked briskly towards the door. Flinging it open, George revealed a stout serving woman pushing a cart laden with steaming serving dishes and an ornate silver teapot.

"Merry Christmas Bertha, I can't thank you enough for bringing breakfast up to the room," greeted George. With a sharp glance at Kid, she continued, "My poor dear brother is not feeling well enough to go down to the hotel restaurant."

With a nod the older woman pushed the cart into the room. Bertha stopped when she realized that Heyes was asleep on the bed closest to the wall.

"Who's paying?" demanded Bertha with a suspicious glance at George.

"Charge it to the room," responded George airily.

Bertha started shaking her head, but stopped when Kid beckoned. She departed a few minutes later, after collecting the money due and ensuring that Kid had a cup of tea liberally dosed with honey. George lifted the lid of one serving dish to reveal fluffy yellow scrambled eggs.

"Are you hungry?"

Over breakfast the two old friends became reacquainted, catching up on the events of the past several years. Finishing the last bite of food on her plate, George patted the napkin to her lips and leaned back in her chair with a sigh.

"Remy is my bad influence, just like Heyes is yours," remarked George.

Kid's head jerked up. The warm blue eyes were now glaring at her with an expression that made George shiver.

"I told you last night Heyes ain't a bad influence," stated Kid. "He's my partner. If anything, I'm a bad influence on him."

"He led you into a life of crime," asserted George.

"No…," began Kid.

"Actually, I did," called Heyes. The dark haired man sat up on the bed, swung his legs over the side and stood up. In three long steps he reached the breakfast cart. "I hope you saved me something to eat."

Heyes lifted a napkin and retrieved a golden biscuit. He peeled the top off and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. His eyes closed in satisfaction at the taste.

"You ain't nothing like Remy," declared Kid.

Heyes swallowed. Brown eyes opened and he looked down at the remains of the biscuit in his hand. Heyes broke it apart before speaking.

"Remy sweet talked George into leaving Texas with a lot of false promises," reminded Heyes with a smirk. "Got her into all sorts of trouble with the law."

"And?" challenged Kid.

"George is a regular damsel in distress," continued Heyes in a cheerful tone. "And her story sounds a lot like the way I talked you into leaving Texas, and I got you into all sorts of trouble with the law too."

Heyes popped another chunk of biscuit into his mouth. How a man could chew food and smirk at the same time was beyond George. The slim woman glanced from Heyes' smiling face to Kid. She recognized the signs of an argument brewing.

"There's just two things wrong with your theory Heyes," growled Kid. He held up one finger. "I ain't no damsel in distress…"

Kid raised a second finger, but before he could speak, he doubled over as another fit of coughing interrupted his sentence. George moved closer to Kid and began to pound him between his shoulder blades.

"And the second thing is neither am I," declared George indignantly.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-


	3. Christmas Surprise

Disclaimer: Alias Smith and Jones does not belong to me. This is fan fiction, not for profit. Any references to people, places, businesses, etc. are entirely fictitious.

A/N – story presumes the details on the wanted posters are not entirely accurate. Story exists in the same Smith and Jones story verse as previous stories.

By George! c Dec1875

Chapter 3: Christmas Surprise

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"I was gonna say George didn't know what Remy was getting her into, ain't her fault," rasped Kid as the coughing subsided and George quit pounding his back. "Heyes and me, everything we've done has been together."

"Hmmph!" exclaimed George. She didn't like the idea that Kid and Heyes thought of her as a damsel in distress. "Just because I didn't know what Remy De Moines was planning doesn't mean I'm some flibbertigibbet needing your help!"

George didn't miss the look that flashed between Kid and Heyes. She drew back from Kid's bedside, hands on hips again, nose in the air, ready to launch into an indignant tirade.

"I can take care of myself…," began George.

Kid held up both hands, as if in surrender.

"George, all I meant is that Remy asked you to leave Texas 'cause it was best for Remy," soothed Kid's hoarse voice. "He tricked you."

The implication that Heyes might have asked Kid to leave Texas for other reasons wasn't lost on George. Aside from what George read in the newspapers, what did she really know about Hannibal Heyes? The outlaw bought breakfast, checked the telegraph office several times a day, paced a lot, carried a clean handkerchief and took care of his ill partner. George tried to imagine Remy feeding her chicken soup and shook her head.

"And Heyes has never tricked you?" snapped George feeling peevish. "Everything he's done has always been with your best interests in mind?"

"He might try, but I know Heyes too well for him to trick me," answered Kid.

George didn't miss the raised eyebrows on Heyes face, but Kid wasn't done talking.

"You didn't know what Remy was planning," reminded Kid. "After you found out what he was up to, you left at the first chance."

"Beaumont," whispered George softly. She slumped back leaning against the wall, her eyes tearing up at the memory. "The _Daily Register_ carried an article about Mrs. Poindexter's stolen diamond necklace. The Wichita law was searching for a tall, dark haired man using the name of Remy De Moines, travelling with a woman. Me."

"Did the newspaper mention you by name?" asked Kid.

"No, the newspaper didn't mention me specifically" answered George slowly.

"Is there a wanted poster on you?" asked Heyes.

George turned to look at the slender man still standing beside the breakfast cart. Heyes popped another bite of biscuit into his mouth. He chewed slowly, and appeared to be thinking.

"I don't know about a wanted poster," answered George with a shrug of her shoulders. "It's not like I've gone into a sheriff's office and asked if they wanted to arrest me."

Kid's snort caused George to snap her gaze back at the blond. Sleepy blue eyes blinked back at her. The cold had sapped his stamina realized George. This conversation was wearing him out. She moved to stand beside Kid's bed again and fluffed the pillows.

"Lean back," urged George.

"One thing I don't get," mused Heyes. "Why is Remy still after you nearly four years later?"

George's mouth dropped open. The slim woman turned her head and patted her dark ringlets as if the answer should be self-evident.

"We were engaged," reminded George.

"Nah," said both Kid and Heyes in unison.

"And why not?" demanded George with a glare for both men.

"George, if he'd cared about _you_ like he shoulda," answered Kid in a soft tone, "he wouldn't have…"

"What do you have that he wants?" interrupted Heyes.

George turning the full force of her scowl on the slender dark haired man.

"What Heyes means is, when you left, did you have anything that Remy might have given you, anything he mighta wanted back," restated Kid diplomatically.

George remembered her frantic dash back to the Beaumont Hotel. She'd stuffed everything she owned into her flowered carpet bag and slipped out the back. The stage leaving town passed right by the hotel. She shivered at the memory of Remy De Moines storming out the front door. Their eyes had locked for a moment before she slid down in the seat and hid. Although she hadn't seen him in almost four years, those angry eyes and Remy's enraged shout, _George!_ still echoed in her nightmares.

"I was wearing my engagement ring then," answered George slowly.

"That fancy diamond ring," coughed Kid.

"How much do you think the ring is worth?" demanded Heyes. "Enough for him to want it back?"

"I'm not even sure if the ring is real, but I haven't had the heart to throw it away," George shook her head disparagingly at her foolishness. Drawing a shaky breath, she admitted, "I loved Remy."

"What did you do with the ring?"

"I put it away in my jewelry box that evening," answered George, her eyes widening with realization. "The jewelry box Remy gave me for Christmas, just after we left Wichita."

Three pairs of eyes exchanged a glance. George held her breath. Kid finally leaned back against the pillows, while Heyes took a moment to pour a cup of steaming brown liquid from the ornate silver teapot on the breakfast cart.

"Do you still have the box?" asked Heyes in a nonchalant tone.

George nodded.

"May I have a look at it?"

George nodded again. The astute outlaw raised the cup to his lips and took a sip. Heyes' face crinkled up in dismay.

"This isn't coffee!"

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

A short while later George returned to Kid and Heyes' room carrying her jewelry box in one hand and a plain blue enamel coffee pot in the other. She stopped in front of the door. While she was tucking the box beneath her arm, the door swung open to reveal Hannibal Heyes.

"How did you know I was here?" asked George in surprise.

"I've got really good hearing, comes in handy in my line of work," responded Heyes in a low whisper as he pulled the door wide to allow her inside. "Come in, but be quiet. Kid's asleep."

The slim brunette's yellow skirts brushed against Heyes as she stepped into the sunny room. Heyes closed the door and turned to take the coffee pot from her.

"Ahh, coffee," breathed Heyes, a smile spreading wide across his face. "Thank you George."

George watched as he sauntered over to the breakfast cart and poured a steaming cup of the dark beverage. He took a sip of coffee, closing his eyes in appreciation. It wasn't until after Heyes drained the entire cup that George spoke again.

"Do you really think there is something inside my jewelry box?" asked George.

Dark brown eyes opened to see the elegant rosewood box she held forward.

"Of course, you told me you put your ring in there," answered Heyes. He gave her a conspiratorial wink. "Now let's see if there's anything else."

Heyes took the box from her hands and carried it over to the tall bureau. Nimble fingers caressed the sides of the box. Gently, Heyes lifted the lid to reveal a red velvet lined interior. He gave a low whistle at the sight of the sparkling ring fitted into the first chamber of the box.

"That's some rock," murmured Heyes. "Have you ever had it appraised by a reliable jeweler?"

"No," huffed George, "of course not."

"If it's real," continued Heyes in a low tone, "you could sell it and not have to worry about money for a while."

"And if it's fake?" George's chin quivered.

"Then you keep on asking folks if they want to help you sell your engagement ring," answered Heyes.

George blinked at Heyes' pragmatic response. Long tapered fingers withdrew the ring out and set it on the bureau, then reached into the next chamber. A small purple amethyst pendant dangled at the end of a simple silver chain.

"My mother's," informed George before he could ask.

"Then you'll want to keep it," responded Heyes. He turned to face her holding the necklace up towards her. "May I?"

George lifted the cascading curls off her neck and turned her back to the outlaw. The amethyst slipped into the hollow of her throat as Heyes fastened the clasp with a feather light touch against the back of her neck.

"There."

George turned back to face him, dropping her hands to her sides. Heyes smiled at her.

"It looks good on you," was all he said before turning back to the box.

Heyes picked up the item from the next chamber and looked at it quizzically. The gray metal key hardly looked like it belonged to the jewelry box.

"It's to wind up the music box," explained George.

"Oh?" Heyes gestured towards the velvet covered left hand side of the jewelry box. The covered section was twice as big as the three empty compartments beside it. "That's awfully big for a wind up music maker. Usually they're little tiny things. What song does it play?"

"I don't know, it's never worked," answered George.

"Oh," repeated Heyes, but this time drawing the word out soft and slow.

The renowned safecracker lifted the jewelry box up and ran his hands across all sides. On the back of the box he found the key hole. Heyes inserted the metal piece and started to turn.

"That's not the right direction," George instructed.

A sassy twinkle gleamed in the dark brown eyes that looked up at her.

"I know," agreed Heyes.

He grinned and turned the key. The bottom of the jewelry box slid forward exposing a hidden compartment. A jumble of gleaming gold and sparkling stones appeared.

"Oh!" gasped George. One shaky finger reached out to a gaudy strand of large diamonds. "Mrs. Poindexter's necklace!"

"I don't know anything about gemstones, but I'd bet good money that none of these are fakes," concluded Heyes.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"Mr. Rembacker," Bertha's voice called, accompanied by a hard rap on the bedroom door. "I've come for the tea cart and the breakfast dishes."

George's panicked eyes looked up at Heyes.

"We can't let her see the jewels," hissed George.

In response, Heyes slid open the top drawer of the bureau and swept the sparkling array on to the crisp white shirt folded inside. Another loud knock sounded from the door. Kid stirred on the bed as Heyes pushed the drawer shut. The slender man hurried past George to open the door.

"Merry Christmas Bertha," greeted Heyes. "Thank you for a wonderful breakfast."

The older woman smiled at the praise and stepped inside to retrieve the cart. Kid winced as he sat upright.

"Would you leave the pot of tea?" asked Kid as he rubbed his hand across his upper torso. "And the honey?"

"And the coffee," added Heyes.

It wasn't until after the housekeeper left that George and Heyes told Kid of their findings. Blue eyes stared in amazement at the brightly colored jewels Heyes poured on his quilt top.

"As long as I have them, Remy will be after me," sighed George.

"Then you need to get rid of them," stated Kid.

"How?" asked George. "It's not like I can just throw them away."

"No," smiled Heyes, "but you can turn them in to the Sheriff."

"What?"

"Tell him the truth. You didn't know you had them," grinned Heyes as he sat back in the chair beside the window. The master planner steepled his fingers together. "Tell the Sheriff you dropped the jewelry box and everything fell out."

"Turning the jewels in will prove you're not the thief," nodded Kid in agreement. "Once the Sheriff knows Remy gave you the box he'll figure everything out."

The idea of freedom, freedom from Remy, freedom from the taint of his crimes, freedom to forget about him, gave George a glimpse of hope.

"You could go back to Texas and see your father," suggested Kid. "Or north to Denver to see Clem."

Was it George's imagination, or did Heyes stiffen at Kid's words? Was he still worried about George's father? Or something else?

"You still keep in touch with Clem?" asked George.

"Of course, she's one of my oldest friends, we went to school together," reminded Kid. "Friends have to look out for each other."

"Since Beaumont, I've been on the run," admitted George. "I haven't really kept in touch with anyone. Is she married now? Got any children?"

"Not unless she got married since we saw her last month for Thanksgiving," answered Heyes with a sideways glance at Kid.

George smiled, thinking of a life where she could visit friends, and not have to worry about Remy showing up. Then, the reality of Poncha Springs intruded.

"There's just one problem," declared George.

"What?" asked Heyes.

"Poncha Springs is a small town," answered George. "Nearly everything, including the Sheriff's office, is closed for Christmas."

"Does the hotel have a safe?" asked Kid. "The more people that know you turned in the jewels as soon as you found them, the better."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"Mr. Johnson, you don't know how much I appreciate this," gushed George.

She watched the man twirl open the safe. The hotelier turned to take the tray of jewels from her hand.

"Why I just couldn't sleep at night knowing these things were in my room," declared George.

Heyes hand pressed against the small of her back, warning not to overplay her role.

"Sheriff Tate will be back tomorrow," informed the older man. "I'm sure he'll be able to locate the rightful owners. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

George's smile brightened and her glance moved past Mr. Johnson to include Bertha.

"My brother is still not feeling well," stated George. "Would it be possible to have supper sent up to Mr. Rembacker's room?"

Johnson and Bertha looked at each other. Although room service was not an expected option at the hotel, expensive jewelry in the hotel safe seemed to inspire them. Unlike her earlier request to have breakfast sent up to the room, this time there were no complaints about bringing dinner up to Mr. Rembacker and Mr. Owens' room. George and Heyes returned to the spacious front room upstairs. The curly haired blond was snuggled beneath the quilt.

"Kid's asleep again," announced Heyes. "Usually he wakes up at the slightest sound."

"Sleep is the best thing for a cold," reminded George.

Heyes moved over to the dresser and rifled through the second drawer. He withdrew a pack of cards and turned to face George.

"It will be a while until supper," smiled Heyes. "Would you like to play cards?"

"Actually," answered George settling herself in the chair near the window, "I'd rather you told me about the man who invented the late husband scam."

"Silky?" responded Heyes. "Why? What do you want to know?"

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"You won't go with me to the Sheriff's office tomorrow?" asked George in dismay.

"Our plan was for you to turn in the stolen jewels," reminded Heyes as he inserted the key into the door of George's room.

"But," protested George.

"Surely you can understand why Kid and I don't want to go to the Sheriff's office," reminded Heyes. "I'm not sure Kid should even try to get out of the room yet, he wobbles when he tries to get to the chamber pot."

George blinked at the unexpected information. Heyes, realizing that he'd said too much, froze, hand still on the door knob.

"I'm more tired than I thought, I shouldn't have said that, " stated Heyes. "You won't tell him, will you?"

"Your secret is safe with me," promised George, "but how are you going to keep Kid from finding out? He knows you too well for you to keep anything hidden."

"No," corrected Heyes. "He knows me well enough to know if I try to lie to him. If I don't want Kid to know something, I just don't talk about it."

Heyes pushed the door open. George stepped into the entrance of her room and turned to lean against the doorframe.

"After you turn the jewels in, then you get the first stage out of here before Remy shows up," continued Heyes resuming discussion of their plan. "Remy will quit chasing you once he knows you don't have them."

"What if the Sheriff doesn't believe me?" demanded George. "What if he arrests me?"

"Then Kid and I will break you outta jail," chuckled Heyes. "It's the least we can do after having you spend the day watching him sleep."

George hadn't expected to spend Christmas day with two outlaws. Kid awakened again in time for dinner and afterwards insisted on handing out some treats from his saddle bags. Heyes brought out a bottle of good Irish whisky and poured three drinks. George broke the two long red and white candy sticks Kid gave her into smaller pieces to be shared. Then she and Kid listened while Heyes read _Around The World In Eighty Days_ aloud until Kid drifted off to sleep again. George started to open her mouth and reply, but Heyes wasn't done talking.

"Sleep and eat," amended Heyes.

"He's feeling better you know," smiled George. "I haven't heard him coughing since Bertha took the breakfast things."

"Yeah, a warm bed and hot food does a body wonders," agreed Heyes.

Something in the way Heyes said that made George wonder how often the partners had these basic comforts.

"Today was the best Christmas I've had in four years," admitted George.

"One of our best Christmas' too," assured Heyes. "It's not often that we share Christmas with a lady."

George dropped her eyes for a moment. She felt Heyes take her hand in his. For a brief moment, she had this crazy idea, but then she felt her room key pressed into her hand.

"Plus you brought coffee," reminded Heyes with a smirk. "Goodnight George."

George watched his figure retreat down the corridor.

"Hmmph," murmured George softly as she closed her bedroom door. Kid had been right when he said friends had to look out for each other, and she was gonna look after him even if he never knew about it. "Heyes, what is it that you haven't told Kid about?"

-x-x-x-x-x-x-


	4. Enemies

Disclaimer: Alias Smith and Jones does not belong to me. This is fan fiction, not for profit. Any references to people, places, businesses, etc. are entirely fictitious.

A/N – story presumes the details on the wanted posters are not entirely accurate. Story exists in the same Smith and Jones story verse as previous stories.

By George! c Dec1875

Chapter 4: Enemies

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

George's face lit up with a pleased smile as she descended the hotel staircase early Sunday morning carrying her heavy woolen cloak. A man clad in black pants and a crisp white shirt leaned against the front of the registration desk. Heyes' elbow was on the counter holding his chin. The brown eyes were closed.

"I thought you weren't going with me to the Sheriff's office," whispered George.

Startled awake, Heyes jumped. He started to speak but a huge yawn overcame him, forcing his eyes closed. Snapping his jaw shut, he shook his head in an attempt to wake himself. George bit her lip, suppressing a chuckle.

"What are you doing here?"

"If I didn't come, Kid was gonna get up to escort you," grumbled Heyes. "For some reason, he thinks you need protecting."

"You're the one told him I was a damsel in distress," reminded George with a smirk. "Does that make you my knight in shining armor?"

"Hardly, " snorted Heyes. With a shrug of his shoulders, he added, "I came 'cause I don't want him out in the cold if it isn't necessary."

George didn't have a chance to feel chagrined. The outlaw turned to thump the bell on the shining walnut counter. Mr. Johnson came out of the back room, yawning and tugging his suspenders straight. The man didn't even ask, but turned straight to the safe.

"Sure will be glad to get rid of these things," muttered Johnson as he turned the dials.

"Me too," realized George.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"And so you see Sheriff," dissembled George, "as soon as I saw these jewels, I knew I had to turn them in."

Sheriff Tate gaped in amazement at the glittering treasure scattered across his desk. George stepped sideways to peer out the front window of the Sheriff's office. The figure of Hannibal Heyes disappeared into the hotel door just as two riders reached the stables. While it had been oddly reassuring to have Heyes escort her and the jewels to the Sheriff's office this morning, he had departed before the Sheriff got a look at him.

"I'll need you to fill out a written statement," replied the lawman as soon as he could speak.

Half an hour later, George laid the pen down. Her penmanship wouldn't win any prizes, but the story she had concocted was legible. And even more important, believable.

"I'll be leaving on the next stage," concluded George. "So if you need anything additional, please write to me care of my father, George Sinclair, Texas Ranger division, El Paso Texas."

George hadn't heard from her father in years, but in her estimation, it never hurt to tell a lawman you were related to another lawman.

"First stage is Tuesday morning," nodded the Sheriff as he slid the box of jewels into the safe.

"Tuesday?" asked George in surprise. She stood up from the desk. "I can understand no stage yesterday, it was Christmas, and today is Sunday, but isn't there a stage on Monday?"

George wanted to get out of Poncha Springs before Sheriff Tate changed his mind about her innocence and demanded more than a written statement. The lawman looked up from the safe as he closed the door on the stolen horde and spun the dial.

"Ma'am, I'm just a lawman," replied the Sheriff. "I don't make the stage schedules, you'll have to check over at the depot."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

George trudged back across the snowy street to reach the boardwalk leading to the hotel. Mindful of the melting snow and the mud, she scraped the soles of her black boots on the scraper outside of the empty mercantile. Like the other shops along the street, it was closed for business on Sunday. The doctor tipped his hat as he passed her. George's eyes widened with the realization that the medical man could only have come from one place. The only open businesses were the hotel and the livery. She picked up the hems of her voluminous skirts and quickened her pace.

"Mr. Johnson," panted George, "was the doctor just here?"

Johnson looked up from his ledgers and nodded.

"Yep, Doc stopped by to see Mr. Newton about his lumbago," informed the barrel chested man.

"Oh," breathed George. The doctor wasn't here to treat Kid. She patted her heaving chest trying to catch her breath. "For a minute there I was worried. I thought maybe my brother had taken a turn for the worse. I'll just go…"

Breathlessly George fluttered her hand in a gesture towards the stairs. Johnson nodded as if he understood. George stepped away from the counter.

"Mrs. Sinclair," called Johnson, "You tell Mr. Rembacker and Mr. Owens that those friends of theirs need to get another room or there will be an extra charge."

George turned around and looked at Mr. Johnson in puzzlement.

"Friends of theirs?" George asked, trying hard not to sound too shaky.

"That's what them fellas said," responded Johnson. He frowned and pointed at the floor. Boot prints led across the floor. "Awful muddy friends, don't know a good boot scraper when they see one."

George swallowed.

"I'll be sure to tell my brother and his partner," promised George.

She loosened the ties of her cloak and laid it across the purple sofa, exchanging it for the two week old Denver newspaper still sitting where she had left it on Christmas Eve. George made her way upstairs, taking deep breaths with every step. Outside the door to Kid and Heyes hotel room, George stopped. She raised her right hand to rap loudly. It was a minute before Heyes pulled the door open. The slender man had a strained smile on his face.

"Mrs. Sinclair," greeted the polite rogue, "I'm afraid now is not the time…"

George pushed past Heyes in a determined rush. She only had a glimpse of his wide eyed surprise before she launched herself into the scam of her life.

"Where is that baby brother of mine!" huffed George in a tone of righteous indignation. "When I see him…"

Now in the room, George stopped abruptly. Kid had his blue jeans on over white long johns, bare feet dangling over the side of the bed. A big, burly ruffian pointed a gun at Kid's head. Behind Heyes, another smaller man stood holding a pistol pointed between his shoulder blades. The strangers had to be the bounty hunters that Heyes had mentioned.

"Henry," George gulped, letting the fear show in her face as she spoke directly to Kid, "Who are these men? What…"

"George…," began Kid.

The burly man standing next to Kid jabbed the barrel of the revolver against Kid's head. The curly haired blond's jaw clenched.

"Shaddup you," growled the big man.

"Ma'am, I don't know what you're up to," the other man spoke from behind Heyes, "but we're bounty hunters and these two men are our prisoners."

"Bounty hunters? Prisoners?" exclaimed George, her voice rising higher. The newspaper in her left hand crumpled as she balled up her fists and placed them against her hips, George glared at Kid. In her best irate big sister voice, she demanded, "What kind of trouble have you gotten into this time Henry? Did Mildred's father catch you sneaking around their home again? It's only four more months until the wedding…"

"Why ya keep calling him Henry?" blurted out the burly man jabbing Kid again. "This here is Kid Curry."

"And this is Hannibal Heyes," added the second bounty hunter.

For a moment George stared wide eyed, then her voice pealed with laughter.

"Kid Curry?" laughed George. She held up one slim hand and wagged her index finger back and forth, "Oh no, no, no. My baby brother is not Kid Curry."

"Is too," declared the big bounty hunter in an affronted tone.

"No," corrected George. Pointing directly at Kid, she lied her head off. "My brother's name is Henry Albertus Merriweather Owens."

"Naw," objected both bounty hunters, while Kid's eyebrows went up at her at her choice of names.

"And he's probably the slowest gun in the West," declared George for good measure.

The sound of a soft snort came from beside George. The slim brunette spun around to face Heyes and his captor. George flashed her eyes sharply at Heyes before turning to face the smaller bounty hunter directly.

"I will admit his friend here, Willard Rembacker, looks shifty enough to be an outlaw," continued George with a smirk.

"Huh?"

George smiled sweetly. For good measure, she batted her eyelashes too.

"Of course looking like an outlaw isn't enough reason to be arrested."

"That's what I keep telling them," interjected Heyes.

The second bounty hunter's gun jabbed painfully against Heyes' back causing him to wince.

"Maybe I should just let them arrest you," snapped George with a full out glare of annoyance at Heyes.

She composed her face and turned her smile back on the smaller bounty hunter to make her first play.

"Let's go see the Sheriff," suggested George "Then we can get this all cleared up."

"You want to take these men to see the Sheriff?" repeated the smaller man in amazement.

George took a step towards the door, still clutching the rolled up newspaper in her left hand. She made her second play.

"Certainly, I'm sure Winston…," George's voice stopped for a moment. She gave a throaty chuckle and brought her hand to her throat as she lowered her eyelashes. "I mean, Sheriff Winston Tate, will have all sorts of wanted posters, so you can see the mistake you're making."

"We ain't made a mistake," called the burly bounty hunter.

George looked up at the man's belligerent tone. He scowled across the room at her.

"You don't have to take just take my word that Henry is my little brother and Willard is his friend from law school," responded George airily.

"Law school?" echoed the smaller bounty hunter from beside Heyes.

"Yes," replied George with the gleaming smile of a proud big sister. "Henry is going to be a lawyer, maybe even a judge someday, just like Papa."

Her smile faltered for a moment. She turned her gaze to Kid, ignoring the bounty hunters.

"Now Henry, these men have just made a mistake," continued George in a lecturing tone. "You need to promise me that you won't have them arrested for kidnapping."

"Kidnapping?" echoed the burly bounty hunter.

A disgruntled frown on Kid's face was the only answer George received. The two bounty hunters exchanged a glance. George's use of the Sheriff's first name and referring to her father as a judge had rattled them. Time for the next play.

"I just don't understand," added George in a puzzled tone deliberately mixing up the names. "How could anyone mistake Henry for Hannibal Heyes and Willard for Kid Curry."

"He's Kid Curry," insisted the burly bounty hunter in a stubborn tone.

"And this one's Hannibal Heyes," corrected the smaller bounty hunter.

"Oh no they aren't," objected George with a dismissive wave of her hand. She made her final play. "Of course you will have to explain why you think Henry and Willard are Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry, and how they could make it all the way to Poncha Springs in this weather after robbing Fort Fetterman's payroll in Casper two weeks ago."

She turned back to wave the crumpled newspaper beneath the smaller bounty hunter's face, hoping the man could read.

"The bank's shipment was hijacked," pointed out George. "According to this newspaper, the folks in Casper thought Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry escaped north."

The small bounty hunter snatched the newspaper from her hands. His eyes moved back and forth, the weapon in his hand lowering as he read.

"Doesn't the Devil's Hole Gang have a hideout somewhere up north?" asked George in a sweet tone.

"This paper says Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry were in Wyoming two weeks ago," declared the smaller man as he looked across the room at his partner.

"Well they wasn't," objected the burly bounty hunter. "We've been trailing these fellas for nigh onto three weeks, maybe longer."

"I told you we weren't Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry," Heyes smiled in satisfaction.

"The descriptions are sorta general," wavered the bounty hunter still holding the newspaper. With a huff of exasperation, he declared, "I told you it was too good to be true to catch Kid Curry and Hannibal Heyes on our first case!"

The burly outlaw scratched his head in confusion. The pistol pointed at Kid lowered.

"Are you sure you ain't Kid Curry and Hannibal Heyes?"

"I will swear on a stack of Bibles that I am not Kid Curry," answered Heyes with a broad smile.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The door slammed shut. George stared at the painted wood for a moment hardly believing their good fortune. A smile spread slowly across her face as she heard the lumbering footsteps of the two men hurry down the hallway. Footsteps that faded into the distance. George was giddy with happiness at the departure of the confused bounty hunters.

"They've gone," started George, "they've really…"

"Sssh," ordered Heyes.

The outlaw leader bent over and picked up the crumpled newspaper that the smaller man had dropped on the floor. Heyes straightened, frowned briefly at the paper and then strode purposely past George towards the window.

"Sssh?" asked George. "Why?"

The slender man stood back from the heavy floral drapery and watched the street below. Kid swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood up with a wary expression on his face. George moved to stand next to the dark haired partner. Heyes remained silent. The two bounty hunters appeared in the street below. From their rapid fire arm movements, it appeared the two men were still arguing as they headed in the general direction of the livery. Heyes shook his head in amazement as the bounty hunters disappeared inside.

"It looks like they really are leaving," murmured Heyes in an incredulous tone.

"Of course they're…"

George's indignant reply was interrupted as Kid stepped towards her. The brunette smiled with delight to see her friend standing tall and strong. George gasped in surprise as Kid scooped her up in his arms and twirled her around. The broad smile spread across his face showed his relief.

"George, you were wonderful!" Kid beamed.

"Put me down," protested George as Kid continued to swinging her. "You're making me dizzy!"

Kid spun her around once more before the tall blond gently settled her feet back on the floor.

"But Albertus and Merriweather? Really?" complained Kid.

"Who are they?" questioned Heyes' low voice.

"Clem's cats," answered George.

"The orneriest pair of cats I ever did see!" added Kid with a chuckle. The blue eyes turned to his partner. Heyes still stood watchful at the window. "Heyes, aren't you gonna tell George how wonderful she was?"

"George, you were wonderful," agreed Heyes in a mechanical tone as he continued to stare out the window.

George watched as the tension seemed to drain out of his body. The two bounty hunters, now mounted on horses, exited the stable. A real smile spread across Heyes' face as the men headed out of town. Heyes turned to grin at George.

"The bit about your father the judge was inspired," agreed Heyes. The mastermind looked at the crumpled paper in his hands and frowned again. "I just wish we knew who robbed the Casper payroll."

"What, are you afraid someone's going to steal your reputation?" teased George.

"No, I'm afraid we'll get blamed for something worse," answered Heyes. "Right now, if we get arrested it's for robbery, three to six years in the Wyoming territorial prison. Murder is a hanging offense."

"Murder?" quavered George.

Jabbing his finger at the article he pointed to the description of the chase. George blanched at the phrases she had merely skimmed over… shots fired… nearly blew the deputy's head off… almost killed. It certainly didn't sound like Curry and Heyes with the Devil's Hole Gang. Their reputation for not shooting anyone during their robberies was well known.

"We plan three or four big heists in a year, and we choose our targets very carefully," explained Heyes in a low voice. "Cracking a safe in the dead of night is the best, not likely to be any innocent folks around."

"The Devil's Hole Gang is known for robbing banks _and trains_ ," objected George. "Stopping a wagon carrying a payroll isn't much different from stopping a train."

"Trains stay on tracks and railroad engineers have schedules," reminded Kid. The tall blond sprawled back across his bed. "You plan where to stop the train and go wait by the tracks until it gets there."

"Wagons follow roads, but there are a lot of roads" added Heyes. "To know which road, you'd have to have an inside man."

"Well, I for one am glad these thieves made the newspaper," stated George. She plucked the paper from Heyes' hands and fanned herself with it. "Otherwise those two bounty hunters would probably still be holding you both at gunpoint."

Heyes brown eyes narrowed. George could tell he was still worried about the robbers in Casper.

"How did those two find you?" asked George changing the subject. "How did they get in here?"

Heyes gave Kid a rueful glance. Both men shook their heads with an air of chagrin.

"It's my fault, I shoulda been more alert," started Kid, "but with this blamed cold, all I want to do is sleep..."

"Kid, it's not your fault you're ill," objected Heyes. "They got in because I didn't put a chair against the door before I went back to bed."

"Alright Heyes," agreed Kid. The blond stretched his long legs across the bed, laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back against the headboard. A broad smile spread across his face. "It was your fault. I can live with that."

"My fault they got in the room," agreed Heyes. The dark brown head nodded. "Of course it was your fault they found us to begin with."

"What?" demanded Kid. The blond sat up abruptly and stared at his partner. "No. How is it my fault?"

George listened to the gentle bickering with a smile on her face. She knew the men hadn't been partners for six years as Heyes, in the guise of Willard Rembacker, had claimed. Kid had been alone when he first arrived in Amarillo. She didn't remember seeing Heyes in Beaumont, so perhaps they met soon afterwards. Partners four years now. Maybe? Or was it longer? It seemed as if they'd known each other all their lives.

"You're slipping Kid," answered Heyes with a mock glare. "To find us they musta followed you from when they lassoed you on the trail."

"No, it wasn't them," objected Kid shaking his curly head. This time there was no teasing in his voice. "I never got a good look at him, but there was only one man lassoed me."

"Couldn't be," replied Heyes. The strategist reminded, "There were two of them following us when we split up. The one you didn't see was probably outta sight."

"Heyes, when I was jerked off my horse, I fell hard," argued Kid. "I was dazed with a rope around me. If there had been a second man, I wouldn't have gotten away."

Heyes didn't answer right away. George saw his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed.

"You're using up your quota of jailbreaks Kid," responded Heyes finally, trying for a light tone. "I might get tired of having to come break you out one of these days."

"Thank you Heyes," responded Kid in a mock serious tone. "I'll remember that the next time you need someone to break you out."

The blond's infectious grin spread across his face, and the momentary tension dissolved into laughter.

"How did you get away?" asked George.

"The fella spooked my horse," answered Kid with a fond smile for the trusted animal. "Blackie reared up, hooves flashing while all I could do was sit there with my head spinning so bad I couldn't focus enough to see the man."

"What happened?"

"I don't think Blackie connected, but the fella dropped the rope and did a backstep," continued Kid. "He fell hard on the rocks, hit his head."

Kid rubbed the side of his head in remembrance before continuing his story.

"I imagine that fella will still be sporting a pretty good goose egg," stated Kid, "but I dragged myself back to Blackie, climbed back in the saddle and let him take me outta there."

"You were lucky," stated Heyes.

Kid nodded in agreement.

"Those bounty hunter's said they were following us for nearly three weeks," added Kid with a nod towards the window. "When we split up, nobody followed me. They musta followed you Heyes."

"So we're back to blaming me again?" questioned Heyes.

The dark haired man tilted his head to one side and gave Kid a glare, but George had enough.

"Just how many people are after you two?" asked George in amazement.

Kid and Heyes exchanged a glance. Kid merely shrugged, but Heyes turned to face George.

"Pretty much everybody," answered Heyes.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"What do you mean you're leaving?" demanded George.

George had only been gone a few minutes. When she returned from the lobby clutching her cloak and rapped on the door to the partner's room, her two friends were packing.

"The bounty hunters left," reminded George.

"And they could change their minds and be back at any time," stated Kid.

The sturdy blond laid a pair of clean jeans and a red shirt on a blue wool blanket and began to roll the bedding and clothes up in a tight bundle. Heyes gestured towards the window.

"We saw them ride off," agreed Heyes. "Now all we have to do is get our horses and go the other way."

"But," protested George.

Kid plucked his holster off the bedpost and buckled it around his hips, barely slowing as he tied the weapon down against his thigh. He shrugged into his heavy sheepskin, rolling his shoulders to loosen the stiffness left as the coat dried. The floppy brown hat settled on his head, hiding almost all the curls. Kid threw his blanket roll over his shoulder and grabbed his saddlebags. He had a determined look on his face and for the first time in her life, George thought Jedidiah Curry looked dangerous.

"Heyes, you settle the bill," directed Kid. "I'll get the horses and bring them around back."

A quick one armed hug, a kiss on her cheek, a whispered goodbye and then George found herself blinking as she watched Kid's long legs stride down the hotel corridor towards the rear staircase.

"How did that sweet boy grow up to be an outlaw?" whispered George.

Heyes head jerked up at her words. For a moment the look in his dark eyes was unreadable. Then he resumed transferring his clothing from bureau to saddlebags.

"How did a sweet lady like you grow up to be a con woman?" asked Heyes in a soft voice.

George didn't answer his question. Speaking more to the saddlebags than to George, the inquisitive man continued.

"It wasn't until I heard you flimflamming those bounty hunters that I began to wonder," stated Heyes. "Is your father really a Texas Ranger?" Or a judge?"

George rallied. It had been wonderful having friends around, but nothing lasted forever. She could handle this.

"Both actually," George sniffed.

She tried to sound haughty and just a touch indignant, but Heyes turned to face her, a knowing smirk on his face.

"Oh all right," confessed George. "Father was a Texas Ranger, in 1869, back when I first knew Kid in Amarillo, but then his division was disbanded."

Heyes smiled as he slid his arms into his dark coat.

"Don't tell Kid," pleaded George. "Jed was just a boy when I told him, and I think he was sorta impressed, and he was talking about maybe signing up as a deputy…"

George realized she was babbling. She also realized that Heyes had a surprised look on his face. Had Kid never told his partner about wanting to be a lawman? For a moment they stared at each other. Then Heyes reached for his black pointed hat.

"Your secret is safe with me," assured Heyes. He prodded once more. "And a judge?"

Heyes' raised eyebrow made the gently mocking tone seem more curious than anything else. George sucked in a deep breath and plunged forward.

"A judge at the Lampasas County fair," explained George. "The hog calling contest."

Brown eyes blinked in surprise, then Heyes smiled.

"A little truth goes a long way," replied Heyes. "I guess I should be glad I only fell for the line _even my own father would arrest me_."

"That wasn't a line," stated George. "If there was a reward on me, or he thought it would get him back in the Rangers, my father would have me arrested in a heartbeat."

Heyes shouldered his saddlebags and stepped closer to George. Taking her hand in his, he raised the back of her hand to his lips.

"I'm glad that wasn't a line," whispered Heyes with a mischievous smile. "Usually I can tell when someone's trying to pull the wool over my eyes. I'd hate to think I was slipping."

"Oh," wailed George. "I wish you two didn't have to leave!"

"We don't want to be a danger to you or go to jail," reminded Heyes. "We can't stay."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

George stared at the food on her plate. Using her fork, she pushed a piece of chicken over next to some green beans. She was reminded of Heyes pushing food around on his plate during their breakfasts together before Kid arrived. Was this why Heyes hardly ate? The food didn't taste as good without her friends around. Bertha came with another serving tray and frowned at George's plate.

"Thank you, it's wonderful but I just can't eat another bite," smiled George.

The brunette laid her napkin on the table. Rising George turned to leave the dining room. She was almost to the staircase when she heard it.

"George," oozed Remy's slippery voice.

She had once thought the sound of his voice was sophisticated, cultured, pleasing. Now George cringed. A rough hand grabbed her arm above the elbow. George gasped to feel a metal barrel jabbed against her ribs.

"Where is it?" demanded Remy.

"Where's what?" asked George playing for time.

Dark eyes turned to see if anyone else was in the lobby to come to her aid. The front desk was empty. Mr. Newton snored on the settee oblivious to her danger. The gun barrel jabbed into her side.

"The jewelry box," snapped Remy. "Where is it? I've searched your room and I couldn't find it."

"Oh that old thing," George waved her hand dismissively, "I got rid of that years ago."

"No you didn't," argued Remy. "I've been trailing you for a long time and I know you still have it. You flash that box every time you try the diamond ring pitch."

George concentrated very hard on keeping her shoulders up and not letting Remy see her dismay.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't have the box," repeated George.

"Why don't we go search your room again," snarled Remy, his fingers tightening on her arm. "And don't try anything funny. There isn't anyone here to help you."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-


	5. The Damsel of Distress

Disclaimer: Alias Smith and Jones does not belong to me. This is fan fiction, not for profit. Any references to people, places, businesses, etc. are entirely fictitious.

A/N – story presumes the details on the wanted posters are not entirely accurate. Story exists in the same Smith and Jones story verse as previous stories.

By George! c Dec1875

Chapter 5: The Damsel of Distress

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"Let go of my arm," hissed George as Remy pulled her up the stairs.

"Or what?" challenged Remy in a mocking tone. "You'll scream?"

At the top of the stairs, Remy jerked her arm hard. George felt the fragile fabric of her sleeve rip from its seam as he dragged her down the corridor past the door to the big front room recently occupied by Kid and Heyes.

"Go ahead," sneered Remy. "Folks downstairs won't hear you. And most of these rooms are empty. The drummer at the end of the hall is practically deaf and the brown haired man in the front checked out earlier."

"What about his partner?" snapped George.

Her chest heaved with anger for this man she had once loved. They stopped in front of the door to George's room. The door she had shut and locked before going down to dinner was ajar. Splintered wood kept the latchpin from connecting with the strike plate.

"Don't try any of your scams on me," smirked Remy. "There ain't no other fella."

Remy pushed the door hard. It swung wide against the wall with a soft thud. He shoved George forward into the darkened room. Her foot connected with her empty carpet bag sending it skidding across the floor. She realized that Remy's search had left her belongings scattered haphazardly across the floor. George's arms flailed as she tried to regain her balance. The next thing she stepped on grunted.

"Unh!"

In the darkness, strong arms caught her and pulled her close. Before George could scream in earnest, another shadowed figure stepped forward.

"Kid!"

Silhouetted in the light spilling into the room from the corridor, Kid blocked with his left arm and drew back his right arm. His clenched fist crunched into Remy's jaw. The jewel thief slithered down the wall to land in a crumpled heap. The arms holding George released her. A match was struck. Light filled the room as Heyes lit the oil lamp on the nightstand.

"I shoulda flattened him when I first met him in Amarillo," huffed Kid with an angry frown at the downed man.

"Yeah, you shoulda," panted George in agreement.

The slim brunette sank down on the edge of the bed behind her, breathing hard. Kid tilted his head sideways and looked at her curiously.

"You asked me not to," reminded Kid.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Heyes strode past George and Kid. The dark haired outlaw gingerly stepped over Remy to push the door flush with the frame. George looked from Kid to Heyes and gave them both a shaky smile.

"Not that I'm unhappy to see you both, but what are you two doing here?" asked George. "You're supposed to be long gone!"

Kid reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a small square of folded paper. He held it out towards George.

"I forgot to give you Clem's address," answered Kid. "Couldn't leave ya not knowing how to get in touch with her."

Heyes squatted down. With a frown, he slid Remy's derringer away from the man before he began to examine Remy's crumpled figure. Kid shook out his fingers. His knuckles were already starting to redden.

"Aw Kid, did you have to hit him so hard?" complained Heyes. "He's out cold."

"You're worried about him?" glared Kid. "What about George? What about me?"

Staring at Remy as Heyes turned the jewel thief's head from one side to the other, George noticed a large goose egg at the base of his skull. It was nowhere near the reddened jaw or the side of Remy's head that connected with the wall. She gasped in realization.

"Remy is the one who tried to capture Kid," declared George indignantly.

"Hmmph, whaddya know," muttered Kid with another scowl for the man on the floor. "We can't let him go, he'll cause nothing but trouble for George. Heyes, what are we gonna do with him?"

Heyes looked up, a sparkle in his dark brown eyes. The grin on his face brought forth an answering grin from George and a wary look from Kid.

"This is an opportunity," grinned Heyes. "Remy is gonna help us solve the problem of the folks that robbed the Casper payroll."

"Huh?"

"What do you mean?" asked George.

"George, you're the woman who turned in a fortune in stolen jewels," stated Heyes, "but if you turn in Remy by himself, it will just be your word against his. He'll most likely implicate you to get his own sentence reduced."

George blanched. She hadn't thought of that.

"He might," nodded George.

With a gesture first towards Remy and then to Kid, Heyes continued.

"But if you turn in Remy and Kid Curry…"

"What?" interrupted Kid.

"You want me to turn in Kid?" repeated George in a surprised tone. She started shaking her head back and forth. "No, I can't do it. I won't do it."

Heyes came to the side of the bed and knelt before her.

"Sure you can," coaxed the scheming mastermind. "Kid can help you with Remy, and you can help us convince folks we were nowhere near that shoot out in Casper."

George lifted her trembling chin upwards to gaze directly into Heyes' eyes. Behind him Kid stood frowning, but he was listening too.

"What do you mean?" asked George softly.

"Think of the publicity," reminded Heyes. "Kid Curry being arrested and Hannibal Heyes breaking him outta jail ought to make the papers. Folks in Casper will know it couldn't have been us robbing them if we're in Colorado."

"How?"

"We'll have to work fast," started Heyes. He glanced around the room and spied the flowered pitcher beside the wash basin. "That oughta do."

Heyes stood up and headed to the door, muttering to himself.

"I'll get Remy's rope, and your brown leather coat Kid…"

"Do for what?" demanded George. The slim woman stood up and placed her hands on her hips. "What is it you want me to do?"

Heyes stopped. He turned and eyed her quizzically.

"You're not gonna get squeamish on me now, are you George?" asked Heyes.

George shook her head in response.

"Good," answered Heyes. "All I want you to do is break the pitcher over Remy's head and scream."

"I can do that, but the wash basin might be better," declared George with a scowl at Remy. "It's bigger."

"No, the pitcher is big enough," declined Heyes with a devious smile. "No need to overdo it."

"Heyes," growled Kid, "what's the rope for?"

The tactician flashed a bright grin at his partner before disappearing down the back stairs.

"That's to tie you up."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"It's my turn to break you outta jail," declared Kid. "Let's have George turn you in."

"Nope," responded Heyes cheerfully, shaking his head so hard that his long dark hair flew back and forth. "Too many people in Poncha Springs know me as Willard Rembacker."

"Who?" demanded Kid.

"Aside from the folks in the hotel," answered Heyes, "there were the folks at the stable, the telegraph operator, the clerk over at the mercantile…"

"People have seen me too," interrupted Kid.

"Kid," objected Heyes, "when you arrived, people saw a man in a wet sheepskin coat and a brown hat hunched over and coughing. You were so wet and muddy I doubt even the doc would recognize you now."

"Heyes is right," agreed George. "I wasn't quite sure it was you and I know what you look like."

Kid directed a baleful glance toward her. George smiled at him. Heyes held the brown leather coat towards his partner.

"Did you see anyone besides the stable boy when you left?" asked Heyes.

"Didn't even see him," grumbled Kid. He reached to take his coat from Heyes. "He was mucking out the end stall and just hollered at me to leave the money in the bucket by his chair."

"And the bounty hunters have already left," stated Heyes. Going over the details of his plan once more, he added, "I'll have you outta jail before they can possibly get back..."

"Bertha," interrupted George, her eyes widening. "She saw Kid a couple times yesterday."

"The nice lady that brought breakfast Christmas morning," remembered Kid. The blond smirked at his partner. "See Heyes, I told you getting me arrested along with Remy wasn't gonna work."

"We can't have anyone identifying Kid as Henry Owens," sighed Heyes with a frown.

George turned a critical eye upon her young friend. While he was not the sixteen year old she had first met, Kid still looked younger than his years, not twenty-two as he now claimed. The brunette placed a finger against her lips and tapped thoughtfully.

"It still might work," countered George. "Bertha saw a sleepy eyed teenager with a little peach fuzz on his face, a blue shirt and enough money to pay for breakfast."

"Huh?"

"Heyes, get your black shirt and a razor," answered George. "If Bertha sees Kid we're gonna make sure she sees a dangerous shootist."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"I don't see how a different color shirt is gonna change anything," grumbled Kid.

"Let's just see," soothed Heyes.

Kid rolled his eyes, but took off the sheepskin coat he had donned over his white long johns earlier. Taking the black shirt from Heyes' grasp, Kid pulled it on, followed by the trim fitting brown leather coat. Heyes stood back regarding the transformation. George smiled in satisfaction. With the big bulky sheepskin gone, Kid looked leaner than the water soaked arrival Christmas Eve.

"You know, George, I think you're right," stated Heyes. "Kid, the black shirt makes you look paler and a little older."

George stepped right up to Kid. He no longer looked like a youth in need of a shave. She patted the side of his freshly shaven face. Remembering his interaction with Bertha, George had one more piece of advice.

"Whatever you do, don't smile, people remember your smile," smirked George. "Frown, and think mean thoughts. You look scary that way."

Heyes approached carrying Remy's rope. Behind him, the flattened man groaned. Kid frowned first at the rope, then in Remy's direction.

"Frowning shouldn't be too hard," grumbled Kid.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

George surveyed the room. Her belongings had been hastily shoved back into dresser drawers. A book open on the nightstand made it look as if she had been reading. Kid sat on the floor, slumped against the wall, trussed up like a black and brown package. Heyes held out the flowered pitcher towards her with a smile.

"After I leave, count to one hundred slowly," reminded Heyes.

"You're leaving already?" replied George in dismay.

"I've got to get the horses out of here," explained Heyes.

"What if something goes wrong?"

"Then I'll have to break both you and Kid out of jail," answered Heyes with a smirk.

The strategist turned, walked over to Kid and squatted beside his partner. Kid's hands were tied behind him. Thicker rope coiled around his chest, pinning his arms. Another rope, similar to the one around his wrists, led from Kid's waist towards Remy' outstretched hand.

"Kid, it's just one night," coaxed Heyes. "One more night in a warm bed."

"The bed is in the jail," reminded Kid looking at his partner as if Heyes had forgotten that essential detail.

"You can stand one night in a jail, can't you?" wheedled Heyes. "One more night under a warm roof?"

"It's a jail roof."

"Sleeping in a nice warm jail cell has got to be better than sleeping under a pine with snow all around."

"One night ain't so bad, but the law always wants to make it longer," grumbled Kid.

"It won't be longer," promised Heyes. "I'll break you out tomorrow."

George listened to the partners talk with the dawning realization that Heyes was giving Kid one last opportunity to put a halt to this crazy scheme. Heyes gave the room one more cursory glance. The dark haired mastermind frowned as he looked back at Kid.

"Nobody's gonna believe Remy caught Kid Curry, tied him up and managed to get him into town without a fight," murmured Heyes.

"Isn't it a little late for you to just now think of that?" snapped Kid.

"It's always the little details that make or break a scam," replied Heyes. He pursed his lips. "But we can fix this."

"How…?"

Heyes' fist connected with Kid's jaw. The blond's head snapped back.

"Unh!"

Kid's mouth dropped open. For a moment, the younger man didn't move. Then the blond wiggled his jaw back and forth. Blue eyes winced. Kid's tongue darted out and ran around his teeth. It wasn't until Kid closed his mouth that Heyes reached out and gingerly turned his partners face to the side. Brown eyes winced at the purplish bruise already forming.

"That wasn't too hard," assessed Heyes, his voice sounding a little uncertain.

"Heyes," hissed George in outrage. "What did you do that for?"

"Kid Curry wouldn't be taken without a fight," answered Heyes. "A bruise is what a lawyer might call supporting evidence."

"Really…" huffed George, but Heyes wasn't done talking.

"Some posse members, even some lawman, feel like they need to personally punish prisoners," added Heyes, "but they tend to take it easier on someone that's already been beat up."

"Sheriff Tate wouldn't...," huffed George.

"Sometimes," concluded Heyes still looking at his partner.

George doubted Heyes had even heard her words. The brunette swallowed. For the first time she realized the danger her friends were getting into. She had only met the lawman once. Tate seemed like a decent person, but so had Remy when she first met him. By the doorway, the jewel thief stirred. Kid's gaze moved beyond his partner.

"Kid?" asked Heyes. "Are you alright?"

"Oooh," moaned Remy.

"Heyes, get outta here," ordered Kid.

George followed Heyes to the doorway and watched as the dark haired outlaw disappeared down the back stairs. Just inside the room, Remy stirred again.

"Wha… what happened?" questioned Remy as he struggled to sit up. He blinked his dark eyes at George, trying to focus. "Did you hit me?"

"Not yet," replied George as she raised the pitcher high overhead.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"Bertha," wailed George. "Thank you for bringing the sheriff! I've never been so frightened before! I didn't even know I could scream that loud."

The brunette grabbed the stout older woman and clutched Bertha to her chest as if the woman was a life preserver. Two advantages were immediately obtained. George and her quaking knees had someone to lean on. And Bertha couldn't see into George's room.

"'s all right," murmured the woman's muffled voice. She patted George clumsily on her shoulder blades in an attempt to soothe George. "Ever'thing's gonna be jus' fine."

From her vantage point in the hallway, George's dark eyes scanned the crowded room. The drummer from the end of the corridor, timid Mr. Newton, had been the first to arrive at her sound of alarm. Newton tripped over Remy, and landed on the floor next to Kid amid broken bits of porcelain. Mr. Johnson, and his shotgun, arrived next. No one argued with his demand, _don't anybody move until the sheriff gets here!_ Sheriff Tate arrived just minutes ago followed by a huffing and puffing Bertha.

"Tea, you need tea," Bertha's voice continued. The older woman struggled free of George's grasp and stepped back. "I'll go make you a fresh pot."

"I'll see you in the kitchen," called George to the kindly woman's retreating back. "I'm too frightened to go back in that room again."

Bertha disappeared down the stairs. George turned back to assess the activity in her room. She leaned against the doorframe. Mr. Johnson still held the barrel of his shotgun mere inches from Remy's nose. The jewel thief leaned against the chifforobe. Sheriff Tate helped Newton up off the floor. The lawman looked at the ropes binding Kid in confusion before he knelt and hauled Kid up to a standing position beside the drummer.

"What in tarnation happened here?" demanded Tate.

Remy stared wide eyed at Johnson's weapon. Kid remained close mouthed too. The drummer looked nervously past the cluster of men, finally settling his gaze on George. The brunette nodded, but Newton remained silent. George closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"Mr. Newton," quavered George as she fluttered her hand before her throat, "came to my aid..."

Encouraged, the drummer picked up the tale.

"Mrs. Sinclair sc… sc… screamed," stuttered Newton.

The bald man gulped and stopped speaking.

"And," prodded the sheriff. "What next?"

"I came running and tripped over this man," Newton pointed to Remy, then to Kid. "Then I rolled past the chifforobe and nearly fell on top of this fella here."

"Did you tie this fella up?" asked Tate gesturing towards Kid.

"No," answered Newton sounding surprised at the idea. "He was already tied up."

"There hasn't been time to tie anyone up, not like that anyway," corroborated Johnson. The hotelier glowered at Remy and Kid. "Breaking into rooms, scaring paying customers, this kinda behavior is bad for business."

If anything, Sheriff Tate looked more confused. The lawman ran his gaze over Kid, the ropes binding him, and the lead rope trailing on the floor. Sheriff Tate's jaw clenched as he stared at that last rope. He looked up to meet Kid's blue eyed gaze.

"What were you doing on the floor?"

"It's sort of hard walking all tied up like this," replied Kid with a shrug. "Even harder if someone yanks that lasso."

Tate frowned at Kid's response. His eyes narrowed as he looked from Kid to Remy and back again.

"Why are you tied up son?" asked Sheriff Tate.

"That man bushwhacked me several days ago," answered Kid with a nod towards Remy.

"Did he now?" asked Tate turning to look askance at Remy.

Remy's eyes widened. He turned his gaze from Johnson's shotgun to face the new threat.

"No! That's not what happened! Don't believe him!" exclaimed Remy. "He's Kid Curry!"

George inhaled sharply. Mixed emotions churned her stomach. While she was relieved that Remy had identified Kid, sparing her the unpalatable task, she worried what would happen now to her friend.

"Kid Curry?" repeated Johnson, eyes widening. "The outlaw?"

Kid neither confirmed nor denied his identity, but directed a menacing scowl at Remy.

"I caught him," continued Remy, "but then he got away.

Kid rolled his eyes and looked at the Sheriff.

"Right, I got away," agreed Kid with a sarcastic tone. "That's why I'm still tied up. I came to Poncha Springs 'cause I like jail cells."

Johnson's snort of laughter was followed by a sharp glare from Tate. The lawman looked past Remy and Johnson to George.

"Mrs. Sinclair," asked the lawman in a gentle tone, "I understand you've had quite a fright. Do you know either of these men?"

George's chin quivered. She clutched her arms to herself and nodded.

"Would you tell me who they are?" asked the Sheriff.

George pointed a shaky finger at Remy.

"I know him. He's the man I told you about earlier," answered George. She tried to control her shaky voice. "He calls himself Remy De Moines. He broke the door... he had a gun... he demanded the jewelry box."

"She's lying," seethed Remy.

"That ain't no way to talk about a lady!"

Kid's sharp tone cut through the room. Beside Kid, Newton jumped a little. The timid man sidled further away from the bound man.

"Can I go back to my room?" questioned Newton.

Sheriff Tate frowned at Remy and didn't answer Newton, there was a more pressing concern.

"Where's the gun?"

Johnson prodded Remy with his rifle.

"I don't have a gun!" answered Remy as he raised empty hands upwards. "I told you she's lying."

"He dropped it when he fell," informed Kid with a scowl for Remy. "His sneaky little palm pistol is under the bed."

"Newton," directed Tate, "look under there for me."

The nervous drummer knelt down and lifted the edge of the bedspread. A frightened squeak signified he found the weapon. With two fingers, Newton lifted the derringer and stood up. He held the weapon out towards the sheriff.

"Can I go now?" wailed Newton as Tate took the gun.

A nod from the sheriff and Newton pushed past Johnson and Remy. The drummer stopped briefly at the door while George stepped back, then he dashed back to his room. George turned to see the sheriff examining the tiny pistol. He looked up at Kid.

"How did you know where the gun was?" asked Tate.

"I pay attention to guns, especially guns that are pointed at people," answered Kid.

"It's not my gun," lied Remy. "He's the gunnie, not me."

Both Kid and the sheriff glared at the scoundrel. Johnson prodded Remy once more.

"He's tied up and he ain't even wearing a holster," objected Johnson.

"Everyone knows when I have a gun, I wear it in plain sight," declared Kid. "I think you'll find my holster rolled up and tied down on his horse out back."

"Well maybe it's her gun then," suggested Remy sounding slightly desperate. "I told you she's a liar!"

"Of the two of you," snapped Tate, "I'm more inclined to believe Mrs. Sinclair."

"Why?" squawked Remy indignantly.

"Based on the evidence. It looks as if you came to town planning to turn this man in for the reward on Kid Curry," answered Tate, "but when you arrived and saw Mrs. Sinclair, you changed your plans."

"Evidence?" objected Remy. "You don't have any evidence."

The sheriff narrowed his eyes.

"The door is broken. Someone tore Mrs. Sinclair's sleeve and bruised her arm," glared Tate. Pointing at Kid, he continued. "It wasn't this man, his hands are tied, and from the white tips of his fingers, I'd say they've been tied a long while."

George tried to tuck the edges of her torn sleeve back under the shoulder of her dress as she listened.

"Mrs. Sinclair?" asked Remy as if the name was just now registering. He shook his head. "She isn't a missus anybody. You can't believe her!"

The sheriff looked at George in puzzlement.

"And he is Kid Curry," insisted Remy sounding slightly desperate. "She knows him! They are in this together!"

"In what?" demanded the Sheriff.

"In… in… in…," stammered Remy not quite sure how to answer.

Tate directed his next question at George.

"Now Mrs. Sinclair, or is it Miss Sinclair," asked Sheriff Tate, "do you know this other fella?"

"I'm not sure," hesitated George. She swallowed. "Years ago, I knew a sweet boy named Jedidiah but it… it… it couldn't…"

"Miz Sinclair," interrupted Kid with a polite nod of his head. "It is a real pleasure to see you again, I just wish it were under better circumstances."

George drew a shaky breath and clasped her hand against her throat. Kid's identification of her was vague, it could have been missus or miss, but Sheriff Tate was no longer concerned with her.

"Are you really Kid Curry?" asked Tate.

"Jedidiah Curry," corrected Kid.

"Shame, I guess that means I can't arrest him for kidnapping," responded Tate with a shake of his head. "I'm gonna have to take you both into jail now."

"Both?" squawked Remy. "No! You've got no reason to arrest me! I haven't done anything!"

Withdrawing his pistol, Tate pointed the weapon at Remy.

"Breaking and entering, assault…"

"Don't forget property damage," chimed in Mr. Johnson with a scowl at the broken lock.

"And depending upon what kind of telegraph responses I get tomorrow," added Tate, "there may be a whole lot more charges."

The sheriff nudged Remy towards the door.

"Ed," asked the sheriff with a nod towards Mr. Johnson, "would you keep your gun on Mr. Curry here as we escort these men to the jail?"

The hotelier's face lit up with a huge grin.

"Hoo wee! Now ain't that something to tell folks, I held a gun on Kid Curry," exclaimed Johnson. He pointed his rifle at Kid and gestured for him to follow Tate and Remy. "Are you really as fast as they say?"

"Not with my hands tied behind my back."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

George quickly changed her clothing after the men departed and then grabbed her cloak to hurry to the jail. Sheriff Tate looked up in surprise as she entered.

"Miz Sinclair," greeted the lawman. "What are you doing here?"

The cell closest to the door held Remy. Sheriff Tate stood near the bars of the second cell. Kid stood inside with his back turned. It wasn't until the rope fell on the floor between the two men that George realized the sheriff was untying Kid. Her friend shook out both arms, swinging them wide to get the circulation going again.

"I thought you might need me to make another statement," dissembled George.

"That coulda waited until morning," answered the sheriff.

"You should be locking her up too!" snarled Remy. "She's the one had those jewels all these years!"

"I didn't know I had them," protested George.

"Don't you worry none Miz Sinclair," soothed Tate. "I'm not arresting you. Sheriff in Wichita already telegraphed that a confidence man was the prime suspect in the Poindexter theft."

"Really?" replied George with a glad smile.

"Now why don't you go back to the hotel," urged Tate. "You can give me your statement in the morning."

George looked around the room uncertainly. Kid stretched his arms wide, then rolled his shoulders. The tall blond strode over to the narrow cot.

"I'm aiming to get a good night's sleep," stated Kid.

George knew he'd said that for her benefit. She watched as he laid down and stretched out, crossing his booted ankles. Kid reached to tilt his brown hat down over his face, but Remy's voice stopped him.

"Sleep!" exclaimed Remy. "How can you sleep when you've just been arrested for robbery?"

Blue eyes glared at the jewel thief.

"I know what I do, and I don't lie about it," answered Kid.

"What? Do you think that you're an honest thief?" jeered Remy. "There ain't no such thing."

"Be quiet and lemme sleep," growled Kid, he pulled the hat down over his eyes. "Or I'll come over there and tell you what I think about men that try to trick little old ladies out of their pretty geegaws."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

George entered the Sheriff's office early Monday morning carrying a tray of Bertha's cinnamon buns. The aromatic scent caused the sheriffs head to turn in her direction and Kid to sit up straight.

"I brought breakfast," declared George. "It's the least I can do for my hero."

The sheriff dipped his head, blushing, never noticing that George's smile was directed at Kid. A minute later the lawman rose from his desk. It was not to take the tray from her hands.

"I'll be back in just a minute," the sheriff excused himself.

George watched him hurry outside.

"Was it something I said?" asked George.

Kid pointed to the large coffee pot on the stove.

"I don't think he slept any," answered Kid, "but he drank a lot of coffee."

"Well would you like a cinnamon roll?" offered George.

"I want one," called Remy.

"I wasn't talking to you," sniffed George.

The brunette walked over to stand in front of Kid's cell. She held the tray towards Kid. The blond reached for a roll, but was stopped as the canvas covering the window to Kid's cell ripped open. A grappling hook appeared between the bars. A pull tightened the chain and the hook scraped against the metal bars. Another pull and the bars were out, crumbled brick allowed the brisk December wind inside. A head of dark brown hair appeared at the opening.

"Come on Kid," beckoned Heyes.

"Heyes," greeted Kid. "Can you come back and do the jailbreak in about ten minutes?"

"What?" came an incredulous reply.

"Breakfast just arrived," answered Kid.

"Do you know how long I've been waiting for the sheriff to step out?" demanded Heyes. "No, I can't come back in ten minutes. Come on before I forget why I wanted to do a jailbreak."

Kid snatched a roll and clambered out the opening. George gaped at the audacity of it all. No one would recognize the horses as the same ones belonging to Rembacker and Owens. White splotches on Kid's black gelding made the horse look like a pinto and Heyes' sorrel now boasted black stockings and ears.

"Hey!" called Remy. "What about me? Break me out too!"

"Normally, when I pull a jailbreak, I like to let everybody go, but I make exceptions" answered Heyes. "Just think, you're the man even Hannibal Heyes thought belonged behind bars."

Through the opening, George saw Kid and Heyes mount their horses. In the distance, Sheriff Tate stepped out of the outhouse fastening his britches. The lawman shouted in frustration as Kid Curry and Hannibal Heyes rode out of Poncha Springs.

"George," hissed Remy. He pointed to the keys dangling from the wall. "Lemme outta here. We can work together again."

"We never worked together," reminded George. "You lied to me, you used me."

"We can be partners. Come on, it will be like old times," cajoled Remy's smooth voice.

"No," declared George in a firm voice.

"I'll tell the sheriff you were in on everything," threatened Remy, "including this jailbreak!"

"Say whatever you want Remy," replied George. "I fainted when Hannibal Heyes broke Kid Curry out of jail."

"Huh?"

George dropped the tray. Cinnamon rolls bounced across the floor as she leaned back and slowly sank to the floor. She didn't move again until the third time Sheriff Tate patted her cheek and anxiously called her name.

"Oh Sheriff! Are the bad men gone?" asked George fluttering her eyelashes.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Tuesday morning George stood in front of the stage depot impatiently tapping her foot. Her carpet bag was by her foot and she clutched a rolled up newspaper in her left hand.

"Finally," breathed George, her breath showing in the frosty air.

The driver reined in the stage. George looked up at him expectantly. He didn't budge.

"Aren't you going to open the door for me?" asked George.

A splatter of brown chewing tobacco landed beside the wheel closest to George.

"Ma'am, I'm running late," declared the driver, "this stage is leaving in two minutes. Are you getting in?"

George hurriedly opened the stage door and shoved her flowered carpet bag inside before clambering up after it. Huffing she settled herself into the empty rear seat. Across from her the other seat was occupied. Two men sprawled. The long legged man with the floppy brown hat stopped snoring. The man with the pointed black hat covering his face sat up and tilted it back.

"Do you mind if we ride with you back to the next town?" asked Heyes with a grin.

"Kid, Heyes," greeted George, "what are you doing here?"

"We had to make sure you were alright," yawned Kid.

Heyes reached across and took the paper from her hands.

"And to see if the paper had anything to say about us," added Heyes.

The schemer flipped the folded paper open and frowned. Two inch type declared SHERIFF TATE CAPTURES NOTORIOUS JEWEL THIEF.

"Don't worry, local man makes good is more important to a local paper," soothed George. She pointed to the smaller type below the fold. DARING JAILBREAK. "The telegraph operator told me this article was wired to every newspaper within five hundred miles. People are looking for the escaped outlaws Curry and Heyes in Colorado."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"Oh," George smiled through teary eyes as the partners walked her over to her next stage. "Now I really am a damsel in distress. I can't believe this is really goodbye."

"No, I was wrong," objected Heyes. "You're not a damsel in distress, more of a damsel of distress kinda woman."

"Huh?" demanded George.

She stopped walking and placed her hands against her hips.

"What do you mean?"

"You gotta admit," smirked Heyes, "you certainly gave Remy his fair share of distress."

"Hmmph!" spluttered George. "That's not funny..."

Kid leaned forward and wrapped her in a great big bear hug. George sniffed the scent of his sheepskin jacket and aftershave. Lips on the side of her face gave a brief kiss before whispering in her ear.

"Goodbye for now," promised Kid.

Kid settled George on her feet. The slim brunette turned to Kid's partner. Heyes swept off his hat and took her hand in his. Lifting the back of her hand to meet his lips, he placed a soft kiss on her gloves. The dark haired man helped her into the waiting stage.

"You've got the whole coach to yourself," stated Heyes. "You can stretch out and sleep until the next stop."

"I hope we'll meet again soon," said George.

"Not if I see you first," smirked Heyes with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "You're dangerous."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-


	6. Postscript

Disclaimer: Alias Smith and Jones does not belong to me. This is fan fiction, not for profit. Any references to people, places, businesses, etc. are entirely fictitious.

A/N – story presumes the details on the wanted posters are not entirely accurate. Story exists in the same Smith and Jones story verse as previous stories.

By George! c Dec1875

Postscript

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

As the stage carrying George northward departed, Kid waved as if he really was George's little brother. It wasn't until the coach turned the corner and disappeared from view that he rocked back on his heels and lowered his arm. Heyes grabbed his partner by the shoulders and spun Kid around to face the stable. Heyes nudged Kid forward.

"Come on," urged Heyes, "let's get the horses. If folks are looking for us in Colorado, we gotta get outta here."

"Where did you want to go?"

"Arizona maybe?" suggested Heyes. "Preacher always has good things to say about the place. And when the weather warms up we can go north back to Devil's Hole."

The partners stepped into the open stable. The massive black gelding, now cleaned of whitewash, nickered a greeting. Heyes' sorrel, still stained with lampblack, ignored the new arrivals and continued placidly eating. No one else was in sight. Heyes turned around and flashed a gleaming smile at his partner.

"Alright now," beckoned Heyes, "come on, hit me. It's time for my payback."

"What? Are you on that again?" snorted Kid. "I already told you last night, no!"

The tall blond shook his head and went to saddle his horse.

"Come on Kid," coaxed Heyes. "I feel bad about bruising your jaw like that."

"You feel bad?" exclaimed Kid. "I'm the one that got walloped!"

The blond stopped tightening the cinch to touch his purplish jaw line.

"But Kid..."

"Did you have a good reason?" interrupted the younger man.

"Yeah," declared Heyes. "You know I did it to ensure your safety."

"Would you do it again?" demanded Kid.

"Of course," answered Heyes.

"Then there ain't no reason for me to be mad," said Kid.

"I don't want you to be mad," agreed Heyes. "That's why I want you to hit me. So we're even."

Perplexed blue eyes stared back at Heyes. Kid shook his head.

"Alright," sighed Kid. The gentle outlaw led his horse forward. "I will, but not now. Right now we've got to get going to Arizona."

"Come on Kid, do it now," responded Heyes. "Just get it over with."

"No, we've got to leave, saddle up," objected Kid. "I'll hit you when I have a good reason, a reason to ensure your safety."

Heyes hurriedly saddled his mount while Kid added some coins to the stable boy's till. Heyes led his horse forward to join Kid.

"And when's that gonna be?" demanded Heyes.

"You'll know when I hit you," answered Kid. The blond mounted his horse. "Now let's get outta here.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

It wasn't until the partners were several miles west of the town, and their horses slowed for the hard climb, that Kid spoke again.

"Did George ever say if she was going to Denver to see Clem or back to Texas to set things straight with her father?" asked Kid.

"Neither," grinned Heyes.

"What?"

"She's going to San Francisco."

"What!"

Kid stopped in the middle of the road and glared at his partner.

"How could you let her…," started Kid.

"Let her?" interrupted Heyes with an incredulous tone. He tilted his head back and laughed. "Let her? Really? You've known her longer than I have. Do you really think she is gonna let either one of us tell her what to do?"

Kid waited until Heyes stopped laughing and then leaned closer.

"Why is she going to San Francisco?" demanded Kid.

"She wanted to meet the man who invented the last husband scam," explained Heyes. Brown eyes narrowed as he regarded his partner with a puzzled gaze. "You still seem worried about George. I mean, I would expect you to worry if it were Clem, but…"

"George ain't Clem," interrupted Kid. "Clem can take care of herself."

"You think so?"

"I ain't quite so sure about George," continued Kid. "George seems to get into all sorts of trouble when she's on her own."

"Don't worry, she won't be on her own for long," soothed Heyes. "I telegraphed Silky and told him to be on the lookout for George Sinclair."

Kid raised an eyebrow.

"Why?" asked Kid.

"I figured it was only fair to warn him that the best con artist I've ever seen was coming into his territory," answered Heyes.

The partners walked their horses side by side for a few steps, before Kid reined in once more.

"Did you tell Silky that George is a woman?"

Brown eyes twinkled with mischief.

"Nah," grinned Heyes. "I'm sure he'll figure that out."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-


End file.
